


Choices We Never Made

by folie_a_yeux



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, Magic, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Slap Slap Kiss, Tender Sex, Trans Female Character, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_a_yeux/pseuds/folie_a_yeux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith thought when she kissed Buffy again, it would be like the first time, all twisting and wanting and deep rutting pain. That’s the only way she learned how to love, to take it by the throat before it wakes up, to toss it before it has a chance to leave.</p>
<p>She knows how to bloody her heart. Never quite learned how to cradle it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices We Never Made

It starts in the dark.

It’s barely eight at the Bronze. Nobody but a few pimply freshmen skirting the dance floor, small groups of kids crammed in the corners or wandering hopefully near the bar.

Only eight, and already crawling with vamps.

Buffy can see Faith count them off. She logs them with barely-there nods for each as she slinks out of her leather jacket. Looking at Buffy each time, to check if she’s got them all.

_One by the bar. Three by the far exit._ She licks her burgundy-painted mouth. _Two near the back._

Buffy raises an eyebrow, tucks her hair behind her ears, and jerks her chin to the left side of the stage. _Missed one_.

Faith looks over, curses softly, then turns back with a rueful smirk, lip tugging down to one side like a silent rebuke.

“Damn, Obi Wan,” she murmurs. “Gotta step up my game.” Then she winks, smirk bursting to a full wicked grin. Tosses her jacket over a chair. Heads for the dance floor. 

Thing is, Faith knows her strengths.

Buffy will always spot the vamps first. She’s comfortable when danger’s at a distance or right up close, in the heart of the kill — the hunt, she thinks guiltily, the _hunt_ — or just judging first steps. She can recognize a vamp (or a well-disguised Fyarl demon) like a child smells the monster under her bed, sudden as a wave. She knows how to set the stage.

But it’s Faith who thrives off the in-between. Who actually puts the pieces in play. She strides onto the dance floor, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that she’s the only girl on it. Clawing her fingers into her thick brown wavy hair, hips rolling like an invitation and a challenge, Buffy knows Faith’s fishing with her own lure. That she runs headlong into strategies without having plans. Riding an intuition that’s slippier than knowledge, feeding on the danger instead of shrinking from it.

The metallic gleam of her slinky shirt barely covers the jut of her hip bones, the nipples taut underneath the satin. Dark wash jeans stretching a bit at the knees as she drops one hand to the floor and snakes it back up her body, tosses her head and snaps her hair back, eyeshadow glimmering over half-lidded, heavily kohled eyes.

She’s been out there four minutes and the vamps are already moving in, smelling a bloodbath. They can’t stay away.

Buffy would be jealous of her, maybe, would even hate Faith, a little, if she didn’t so obviously need _her_ help, too. Because even though Buffy would never be able to slip through danger like Faith does, it’s also obvious that she craves it. That part of Faith needs to feel her heels scrape the edge of that cliff. That she needs someone to pull her back.

Buffy tells herself she’s grateful for the give and take. That she admires the liquid grace of Faith’s transition from girl to slayer. That she simply appreciates the easy language they have with one another. The effortless movements each makes, without speaking, to fill the gap the other’s left behind.

At least, that’s how she thought things went. But now Faith is running off the dance floor and grabbing her hand. And before Buffy can read into this new development, before she can ask if something’s wrong, Faith’s pulling her on to the dance floor, right over the edge with her.

“C’mon, Little Miss Tightly Wound.” She comes in front of her, turning her back, and reaches backwards to settle her hands on Buffy’s hips. “We need some more blood in the water. Time to make us a scene.”

Slowly, sinuously, Faith presses herself against Buffy’s back. She moves her hips to the right and then, up then right then down. Pulling her into the same rhythm until Buffy can’t help but laugh, a bit, and go along with her.

They’ve definitely got the vamps’ attention now. Every one they’ve spotted is prowling closer along the edges of the dance floor as kids swarm the platform, eager to have someone else start the party. They’re convinced they’ve struck gold. Eager meat. 

Buffy tries to relax. She breathes in the energy radiating off Faith, thrumming against her back and trembling off her fingertips. She tilts her head forward, letting blonde flyaways tangle in Faith’s dark waves.

As the vamps move in, surrounding them, the DJ twists the volume and lowers the lights. Strobes flash and dance music pounds as kids squeal excitedly. Faith clasps Buffy’s hand and sets it on her stomach. Throws her head back as her other hand rakes through her hair, throwing her panthers-eyes up at her.

And a shiver runs from Buffy’s feet to the insides of her thighs.

Before she can fully process the danger around them, distinguish what’s play and what’s serious, she’s placed both hands on Faith’s hips and pivoted her around to face her. Her breath shudders slightly in her throat. As they grind, their legs negotiating the space between them, Buffy’s skirt gets pushed up by the pressure of Faith’s thigh.

She finds she doesn’t care.

The barrette’s gone from her hair somehow. That fluffy pink swan clip Mom gave her for passing Math doesn’t really seem to matter now. All that matters is that she’s grabbed the back of Faith’s head and pulled her closer. That she feels the cool shock of Faith’s shirt, and heat of her shoulders as Faith’s breasts press against hers.

She tells herself it’s the rush of the hunt. It isn’t.

But it is like a feeding frenzy. The vamps can smell the blood pumping, feel the energy pulsing between them. Buffy tries to think logically about the death swarming around her. But all she feels is the rushing current of the coming attack. The frenzy building like lava, molten and wanton. Lost in the mercury of Faith’s eyes.

Dark hair tickles her lips as she whispers in Faith’s ear. “It’s time.” She feels Faith's lip against her collarbone as they curve into a smile, as she rests her head for a moment on Buffy's shoulder.

“Iss too hot to dance,” she slurs loudly, beaming at the predators around them. “We’re gonna heaaaa home.”

“Unless…” Buffy can’t believe how easy it is to play along. How good it feels to act like prey. To know you’re anything but. “Unless you guys wanna party?”

***

It takes barely a minute to lure them all out, and the stakes are whistling through the air before the vamps have even realized the danger they’re in. Before they could smell who was hunter and who was hunted.

“Behind you!” Buffy yells as she ducks a swift uppercut from what looks like a body-builder from Back to the Dead. At least 20 when he died, and moldering long enough to know the jujitsu every corpse seems to pick up eventually.

Faith twists to avoid the scrawny kid lunging behind her. She jabs him in the center of the chest as Buffy stakes the Rambo wannabe to dust. But Faith’s hit is just half an inch off. He jumps back up and tries to take her from the side. She elbows him hard in the gut, knocking him off balance just long enough for Buffy to stake him through the heart.

“Nice going, B,” Faiths pants, grinning, high on the buzz. “I swear his heart was off-center, though. Do you think maybe he had that switch-organ thing — ”

Buffy’s lips are on hers.

It’s not the blood pumping from the fight. It’s not missing Angel, or relief to be alive, or any of the excuses she’ll make in the morning, when the bruises show.

All she knows is that she’s on Faith like she’s a vamp herself, desperate to devour her. That she’s pressing her against the grimy brick of the alleyway and clasping her face in her hands. All she knows is that Faith is kissing her back.

It’s like a fight both of them, neither of them, really wants to win. She’s sure they bump elbows a few times, and Buffy scrapes her head pretty good against the alley wall. But most of her attention is on Faith's hands, tugging her closer by the belt loops on her skirt.

The hard steel of Faith’s tongue ring clicks against Buffy’s teeth she swallows increasingly ragged breaths. She rubs her thumb over Faith’s cheekbone and places another hand on her breast, squeezing softly as Faith lets out a little moan. She tastes Faith’s tongue as it plays with hers, their mouths slightly open, like they’re still laughing. And maybe they are. Faith’s hands feel like they’re scorching her as they cup Buffy by the ass and pull her even closer. The heat between her legs throbs with a delicious pain. Like being caught in an ocean, when it’s you that roiling.

Faith pulls Buffy’s lower lip between her teeth, biting down slightly. Each kiss burning into the next one. And she _is_ laughing, now. Yanking Buffy back, whirling her around. Pressing her against the same dank wall.

She brings Buffy’s hands up over her head. Holding her wrists with one palm, she places the other hand at the small of Buffy’s back, tugging her towards her. Buffy doesn’t think she’s opened her eyes in minutes. She can feel Faith tracing kisses down the inside of her arms. Across her shoulders. Up her neck.

“Who knew you’d be the big, bad aggressor, huh?” she purrs, and then whispers it into Buffy’s neck, almost breathes: “I love you.” 

Buffy stiffens. Faith must feel the iron tensing her body, must have glimpsed the retreat behind her eyes. She loosens her grip on Buffy’s wrists. Looks up.

“I…” Buffy doesn’t know what to say. Or she does, and she can’t say it. Or she has to, but she doesn’t know how. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

If Buffy pulled back, it’s nothing to what Faith does now. Like an iron door slamming shut. The dull sheen glistening over her eyes. The hard line tightening her dark red mouth.

“Sure,” she says. The word hits Buffy like a slap. “Sure, whatever.”

"It’s not…" Buffy feels as though she’s choking, bile souring in the back of her throat. “ I don’t mean —”

“Forget it,” Faith mutters. Tosses back her hair. Straightens her top. Flashes a shark’s smile, all protectiveness and teeth. “I don’t care. Just got a little riled from the fight, right? Nothing happened.”

She pulls out her stake. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do.”

It’s not until the day after that Buffy admits to herself just why Faith was so eager to bust that group of Mayor’s vamps. Why she didn’t pause when Buffy screamed for her to stop. Why she drove that stake into the aide so hard his ribs splintered, heart right on target. Why she claimed she didn’t care.

There was no time in the terror after, in the confusion, in the betrayal, to explain what she’d meant. How the last time she’d had love, the man she gave everything to almost destroyed her. How being that free meant being that much more unsafe. And how she’d heard her father, in the days when he still shone like the sun over her life, talk about _those people_ and _no daughter of mine_.

How she never meant _I can’t be with you._ Just _I don't think I can ever let go.  
_

***

It’s always worse in the dark.

When Faith’s fighting, the whole world goes away, and only one thing matters: that she’s gonna to win, and they’re gonna lose. She likes that feeling. Want, take, have; it’s simple and it’s clean, like a knife across the throat. None of this clawing in the shadows, trying to figure out whose side you’re on, trying to figure out how the board has flipped. Having to pause, and look down, and see what’s on your hands. The people you betrayed. The chances you left behind.

She knows B isn’t happy about it. Knows she resents Faith even being there, just present in her house, much less recognized as a fellow slayer. A fellow leader.

But then, B never could let the burden down, not even for one second. Not even when it seemed like death was permanent, like an escape might actually be possible. Too eager to save everybody before herself. To throw her body in front of every bullet. Her wonder girl.

Insufferable martyr.

“We need to talk.”

Faith jumps, dropping the lacy curtain she’s been steadily shredding by the window. B stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like she wants to be anywhere else. Which Faith might take personally, but hey, she doesn’t wanna be here either.

“What’s up?” Faith throws herself onto the bed, trying to seem casual. Like it’s no big deal she’s back in B’s life, after all this time.

Maybe still has her dusty old jacket on. Maybe scuffs the covers a bit as she musses her way into a comfy position. Maybe.

“If you’re here to go over the training for tomorrow, save it. I need my beauty rest, and I doubt the plan’s changed since you went over it two hours ago.”

B’s mouth tenses. Faith logs it as a tiny victory, a way to push her buttons without getting on her bad side. It’s just so hard _not_ to push them, to make B take herself less seriously, when she makes such great expressions when you do, when she rises so much to the challenge. When she exceeds everything you set out for her, every dare you’ve ever made.

Faith remembers this one time, after gym class, when Xander and Willow had their backs turned… but she tries not to think about those times. She tries not to think of the way she and B were, before.

She tries not to look at her mouth.

“It’s not about the training.” B crosses the room to stand in front of her, long blonde hair swept back in a ponytail. Eyes fixed somewhere around Faith’s left shoulder. “We need to talk about how we’re going to lead them. How we negotiate this whole… co-leader thing.”

Faith almost laughs out loud. “What’s there to discuss?” She loops her thumbs in her jeans and leans back, cocking her head and giving B a mocking smile. “You tell me the orders, and I act like we both came up with them. Right?”

“That’s not what I want.” A few strands of hair have escaped the scrunchie at B’s neck. Faith resists the urge to push them behind her ear, to focus on the words she’s saying, to recognize that this is supposed be serious.

“Look, obviously they’re not happy with just me alone. Not Giles, not the rest of the Scoobies, definitely not the other Slayers. And I don’t blame them. I got four girls killed tonight. And I have no plan, no idea what to do next…”

“And you think I do?” Faith does laugh now. She probably shouldn’t. “God, you’re still such a control freak! It’s like if every plan’s not perfect, then you’ve failed. You make one bad call, and now you’re ready to quit —”

B moves so fast Faith almost flinches, her nerves suddenly jangling with remembered attacks. She’s less than an inch from her now, leaning over, hands pressing on the bed. Trapping her between them.

“I can lose control, too, Faith,” she whispers. “You know that better than anybody.” B’s breathing hard. “Even before my mom…” She loosens her grip on the bed. Sinks softly to the floor. “God, I — I don’t think I’ve felt in control since I was 14.”

Faith’s never had enough time, enough people, to practice being tender. To know how to reach. But she reaches anyway, and B doesn’t shrink when she slides down next to her, and places one hand awkwardly on her shoulder.

She’s never seen B like this, open and raw. Caught up in the fight, sure. Exposed, defiant. Never vulnerable.

It makes her ache for all the years she’s missed, the cues she’d be able to read if she’d been here before now.

“Hey.” She squeezes her hands, once, and lets go. “Hey, c’mon, losing it is my job. We’ll — we’ll figure this out. I mean, it’s not I’m gonna be Buffy 2.0 anyway.” She grins. “I’m just here to help where I can. You’re the fearless leader.”

No sound. She ducks her head slightly, trying to catch her gaze. Taking in the smell of her, that flush of lemons and jasmine, hair conditioner and sweat.

She tells herself it’s not the time. That Willow would say something funny. That Xander would know to just hold her. She knows what she should do.

But then, Faith’s never been great about the rules.

“I never wanted to _be_ you, B,” she murmurs. And kisses her cheek, where a tear has fallen. “I just wanted to be _worthy_ of you.”

And B turns to her. Touches her cheek where the kiss warms. Leans over, and kisses Faith’s cheek too.

And B — Buffy, smiles, then. Like the sun bursting through the clouds, like a fire at Christmas, the only one Faith can remember. Raises an eyebrow. Touches two fingers to her neck. The old sign.

_What are you waiting for? Attack.  
_

Faith thought when she kissed Buffy again, it would be like the first time, all twisting and wanting and deep rutting pain. That’s the only way she learned how to love, to take it by the throat before it wakes up, to toss it before it has a chance to leave.

She knows how to bloody her heart. Never quite learned how to cradle it.

So she plunges, rasping her lips against Buffy’s lower lip, her chin, the curve of her jawbone, as she tugs off her jacket and lifts her tee shirt over her head. Buffy removes her camisole slowly, fingers trembling, and Faith plants a kiss on Buffy’s stomach, dark red marks on taut tan skin. She moves up to the white lace bra, unclasping the back, pressing her hands on the sides of Buffy’s breasts and running her tongue over their curves.

Buffy moans, softly, and leans into Faith’s mouth, her own hands far greedier, far faster. She cups Faith’s ass in her hands, smashing her lips against her hairline, smoothing the tangle curls from her face, and lifts Faith’s face back up to hers. And every kiss is a forgiveness, somehow, Faith thinks, with what little part of her can still think at all. A way of begging, and having it answered, all at the same time. Covering old wounds and smoothing all the pain away.

Buffy’s already yanked her up, brought her to the bed, hands gripping the covers, pants gone without much ceremony, when Faith hears her take a sharp breath and she feels the hand on her stomach. Palm framing the scar that still flares, scarlet and throbbing, just above her hips.

Buffy fans her fingers lightly over the old wound. “I gave you that,” she whispers.

Well, duh. Faith can still remember the knife twisting.

But she can remember other things too. 

She remembers the wrench she used on Buffy when the Mayor was her boss, the way her body shuddered when she threw her through the window. She remembers the arrow she shot through Angel, and the bullet she shot through him one year later.

And she remembers how Buffy’s body felt against her when they danced. How she never let you see everything she was taking in. How she protected her, and taught her to hunt, and opened herself without ever making you feel bad for it. How her laugh made you feel like you were coming home, and actually had a home to come back to.

“Yeah, you gave me that,” she says instead. Letting herself drown in those sky blue eyes. “But we gave each other a lot of things.”

She moves to shift Buffy under her, but B surprises her, like she always does. Pushing her back on the bed and slipping her bra straps off her shoulders, Buffy leans over and takes one of Faith’s dusky nipples between her teeth, pinning her hip down in one hand as she pins Faith’s wrists with her other.

Faith arches her back, reveling in the exquisite tenderness of her skin under Buffy’s lips, feeling the warmth crashing from the center of her clit to the blood rushing to her head. Every place Buffy’s breasts touch her, every spot her hands caress, everywhere her tongue flicks, pulses and throbs like an ache she never wants to lose. She closes her eyes, breathing sharply as Buffy works her way from her breasts to her stomach, nipping her pale skin with her teeth, licking her hip bones, teasing at the flimsy fabric still covering her damp clit.

“I’m going to need some guidance here,” Buffy murmurs as she shakes her hair out of the ponytail, letting it cascade over her shoulders. She grins up at her, framed by her thighs. “If you’re up for it.”

Faith lets out a shaky laugh, practically panting already. “I think I can manage,” she breathes, and moves her thighs up and apart, giving Buffy room to settle in.

Buffy wraps her arms around Faith’s legs. Faith can feel her, can almost _taste_ her, waiting to move. “Just… lick, I think,” she whispers, raggedly. “Lick, and kiss, and, um… breathe through your mouth, okay? I think you'll be able to tell what works, trust me.”

She lowers her face, and Faith feels the hot rush of her breath as Buffy breathes out, the cool sharpness of her next inhalation sending a shudder through her stomach and thighs.

Her tongue is hot and wet, and she’s actually _kissing_ her down there, too, running her tongue along all her folds, pressing her tongue and lips against her, and she feels her thighs twitch and shudder, feels the blood coursing through her veins, as she takes her clit into her mouth and sucks.

“Oh my god, Buffy, I… yes. That, just, just keep doing that. Oh _fuck_.”

She bucks and kicks, can taste it coiling, bubbling, white hot, and yells as she feels Buffy’s tongue _inside_ her, as Buffy moves one finger to work below as her mouth continues to torture her above.

“Get up here,” she demands, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Get up here or I swear to god I will make you.” 

Buffy looks up, face flushed, and lets her tongue give one long, pressing _flick_ — Faith jerks under it — before shifting up, so they’re belly to belly, and grinning down at her.

Faith can see the freckles on Buffy’s nose and cheeks, too light to spot if you weren’t up close. She wonders if Angel ever saw them, or if he had to close his eyes. Too deafened by thirst to stand the pulse in her throat. Too blinded by the sun in this girl, burning with warmth and courage.

And then she’s swung her legs over, so that her ass is just above Faith’s face, her clit just shy of her mouth, and Faith takes her between her lips as Buffy sinks her mouth once more between Faith’s thighs.

Buffy is already wet and quivering, her clit giving up a sharp spicy smell. Faith can taste her, sweet and thick at the corners of her mouth. She grazes her teeth over her clit and presses her tongue against her, moving it back and forth in a frenzy, lapping her up, taking her in. A girl forced to become a monster, drinking in the girl who reminds her she’s human. Two girls, who know all too well the burden that carrying monsters bears.

She can feel Buffy’s thighs shaking. It’s all she can do to hold her, to hold her own body steady as Buffy brings it closer and closer to abandon; and then, as she feels her orgasm cresting against the pit of her stomach, aching and boiling to release, she clamps Buffy’s thighs down, bites her clit, softly, between her teeth, and feels Buffy scream into the hot wet night.

***

Willow can feel the magic before she wakes. It’s not the usual pulse. Not the pull of a flower drawing water, or the intake of a spirits’ breath. Something deeper, older; far beneath the ground, and far beyond the sky.

If she were awake, she would see the scythe glowing, blue-hot like embers broken from the fire. She would see her hair turn blinding white, glowing in the dusk of an early midnight. She’s beyond sight now.

“Oh…. Oh GODDESS!”

 ***

Kay shifts restlessly in her seat, glancing at the library clock. 3:00 am. _Great._

Five hours. Three hundreds minutes wasted trying to make this paper provocative enough that she’d be happy in the morning, and professional enough that she didn’t end up called on the carpet again. Explaining she’d meant _transphobic asswipe_ in a purely academic sense. Of course she hadn’t meant to insult the author of that publication. Of course she knew he was a tenured professor at this school.

Kay sighs, balancing the source book in one hand, fingers toying restlessly against a pencil with the other. Her short black hair feels greasy, flat; the result of too little sleep, too much caffeine, too many pleas for meds, too many hours feeling trapped by old men and too few of them burrowed away with old books.

She's just about to pack it in and leave when she feels it.

Not feels it, exactly; it’s not connected to her senses, not a prickle on the back of her neck or a shape glimpsed in the corner of her eye. It’s more like a pulse, the way people always describe an earthquake before it hits, that shiver of anticipation, that gradually building _something_.

She stands up, slowly. It’s probably the caffeine and the stress, some combination of late night buzz and early morning drag. But she can’t shake it, can’t get back to work — and then a flash of blinding light nearly sends her staggering into the shelves. 

An ocean roiling through her veins. A blazing sun beating against their heart. All the smell fire and the single touch of skin. And a thousand girls’ voices, in a hundred languages, and all of them saying: _Now_. 

Shaking slightly, Kay turns back to the desk and picks up their pencil. Clutches it in their hand. Clenches down. Sees it crumble almost to powder.

“So,” she murmurs. “That’s new.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Kay, who both deserves to lead the trans Slayer revolution and inspired me to think of an extremely inappropriate way to trigger magic scythes.


End file.
